


A Melting Hot Day

by 37h4n0l



Category: B: The Beginning (Anime)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pining, Sex, Technological Ineptitude, after reading it you can go appreciate the pun in the title, bran is the most awkward human creature on the face of the planet here, it's kinda nauseatingly fluffy comparing to my average, the porn just kinda uh fucking happened i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 17:03:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15053807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/37h4n0l/pseuds/37h4n0l
Summary: Bran's and Mario's trials and tribulations with technology, social awkwardness and an unbearable Summer climate.(Originally for the prompt “for starters, that’s impossible.” from the Tumblr prompt meme.)





	A Melting Hot Day

**Author's Note:**

> So this was for the prompt meme but 1) I'm late as all fuck because I'm busy 2) It got long 3) It became porn, hence the separate posting. I also take a massive amount of liberty with these prompts, as in they quite literally just show up once as a sentence without even having a central significance at this point, but what can you do. Also this should be the 50th BTB fic posted so happy semi-anniversary to all of us!
> 
> (Pre-proofreading because I'm exhausted. The mistakes will just subtly disappear as the days go by.)

It’s a moment Bran waits for every day. The door opens. His breath catches a little as Mario throws himself onto the chair before his desk.

 

It happens to be Summer, or rather that early June transition into the season that could be mistaken for any other moment of it, given the insane, torturous heat. Keith would probably say something about it still being Spring astronomically. And Bran would probably snap because he’d estimate the temperature to be at least 35 degrees, without daring to actually check the thermometer. He knows they — the few of them already present at this hour of the morning — are all secretly cursing whoever came up with the leather jacket part of the uniform. Bran almost has it in him to ask Eric whether he can just wear whatever he wants  _ once _ , ‘Genie’ does the same the whole year anyway, he won’t bear this discrimination. It’s too soon for the division to have started working yet, the only ones now suffering in the stove called the Coastal Branch Office are the early birds — Lily, who has enough energy to be up at six; Eric, now Mario, and lastly Bran who absolutely denies having personal reasons. Even as his eyes travel towards Mario’s desk involuntarily.

 

He always looks so collected. Organized and calm at the same time. Bran doesn’t even possess  _ one _ of these attributes, let alone both; it certainly takes a lot to not even be irritated when someone is sweating as much as Mario is right now. He’s slumping back with a groan low and barely audible, a drop of water running down his neck and stopping at the collarbone that peeks out from under the shirt. Something about the scene makes Bran uncomfortable; it must be the fact that it’s really,  _ really _ hot and even watching someone wear that jacket causes second-hand suffering. It has to be.

 

Lily complains loudly right before Kaela arrives too. The latter is wearing a tank top, and nobody will dare tell her not to. Both of these things can only capture Bran’s attention for a second before it’s drawn back to his  _ coworker’s _ season-inadequate uniform stretching over his shapely pectorals.  _ Shapely _ . Is that even a word he would say to anyone about anything?

 

Bran knows he has a habit of reading too much into things, but he could swear there’s something different about Mario today. He wonders if maybe he’s staring at him a bit too often, because he notices a small furrow between his brows that anyone else would be unlikely to see. Before even knowing whether he’s imagining it, his brain is already running three different scenarios regarding how to ask Mario what happened — none of which will ever be brought to reality. He wouldn’t want to give an impression of less professionalism in their relationship than there rightfully should be. Bran is solidly convinced he simply admires the man for having all those traits he lacks; kind, charming, committed, handsome— No, there’s no point listing them, just plaster a positive adjective onto him and it’ll fit. 

 

But his suspicion is confirmed, because Mario looks progressively more uncomfortable throughout the day, and something like tolerating unliveable temperatures wouldn’t bother him that much. He shifts and fidgets as Eric embarks on a monologue about the latest reports, fortunately not an active investigative case. They don’t have much trouble to deal with these days, so the main priority is organizing, checking and sorting data, instructing rookies and other tasks that don’t require a lot of attention. For the better, perhaps, because Mario’s apparent inability to focus today is rubbing off on Bran out of worry. He can’t even pretend his concerns are work-related when there’s virtually  _ no work _ , so by now he’s given up on the idea of having a conversation with him about something other than murders and extortions. 

 

Lunch break comes around and it feels like an eternity later. Bran is well aware the sandwich he brought is thrown-together in a hasty and inharmonic way. It was made in the last five minutes before him leaving the house that morning, ham and tomatoes with so much mozzarella it’s soaking the bread. He can’t help this routine; he’d like to sleep more, but showing up at the office as soon as possible is important — for the  _ good company _ , a term he prefers leaving unspecified. Bran bites into the soggy loaf and discovers that its consistency is exactly as bad as it looks. He’s almost too concentrated on his lack of talent for quick sandwich-making to notice the presence approaching him and leaning against the side of his desk carefully.

 

“Hey, um—”

 

The bite stops in his throat and makes him cough furiously when he’s confronted with Mario grabbing a chair and looking at him before dragging it close, as if asking whether he can sit down next to him. He soon resorts to giving Bran a few firm pats on the back to prevent him from choking. 

 

“Are you okay?” He interrupts whatever the continuation of the sentence before was supposed to be.

 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s all good” Bran gives him a thumbs-up with a small, embarrassing tear of suffocation in his eye.

 

Silently, full of that uneasiness he’s displayed the whole day, Mario takes out a lunchbox of his own full of some kind of nutritious mixture of grilled chicken and vegetables, exactly the kind of thing one would imagine him eating. 

 

“So,” he starts again, and it sounds like he’s about to say something absolutely terrifying, “I have a problem I might need some help with.”

 

“From, uh,... me?” Bran’s disbelief was already strong enough when Mario approached him; now his brows knit in confusion, because why would someone so good at everything want  _ help _ ?

 

“You’re good with computers, right?”

 

“Aren’t you confusing me with Kaela?” He gives a short laugh after consuming another third of his lunch, but the other still looks dead serious.

 

“I can’t really ask her, not sure I can explain why right now.”

 

“I see…” Bran puts the sandwich down and has to look away, towards the paperwork piled up on his desk, because Mario is giving him a stare that seems like he’s putting his last hopes into him and he can only pray he’s up for whatever task is required. He turns back with more resolve. “I’m not sure I can do it, but I’ll try my best.”

 

“Do you have a few hours to come to my place this afternoon?”

 

It’s such an innocuous question, but the prospect of being alone with Mario in his house makes Bran’s cheek burn a bright red. Instead of unraveling the implications, he’s too concentrated on guessing what he might screw up, and that then Mario will never talk to him again. It turns this scenario that maybe he was secretly wishing for into a potential nightmare. But that pair of warm, brown eyes fixated on him is so insistent he can’t  _ refuse _ , also because there’s something about Mario trusting him that makes him incredibly happy.

 

“Bran?”

 

“Yeah! I can come, of course!” He jolts up, noticing he’s been spacing out.

 

After the second half of the workday — which seems to never end — Bran still has a hard time processing he’s strolling down the sidewalk with Mario. The temperature has only gotten worse, making even the city centre deserted under the blinding rays of direct sunlight. It’s so awfully, incredibly hot that the waves of air fluctuating up from the concrete are visible, a mirage or two appearing in the distance occasionally. Bran has taken off his jacket,  _ finally _ , atmospheric conditions prompting him to ignore the discomfort of his t-shirt’s armpits, drenched in sweat.

 

“Can I ask you what happened, Mario?”

 

“Right, we’re on our own now” Mario scratches the stubby, blonde hair on the back of his head. “The city is a furnace these days, isn’t it?”

 

Bran nods, not really understanding how that relates to anything.

 

“This is a bit embarrassing, really…” Mario chuckles, and he’s tempted to enthusiastically reassure him it’s not, whatever he might be talking about. “Since you’re good with this stuff.”

 

“I’m nothing exceptional…”

 

“My PC doesn’t start up properly, I think something’s broken. I should have figured it would overheat more easily in this weather but I didn’t think about it in time. And all my investigative data was stored on it...” He pauses. “You can laugh at me for being a dumbass.”

 

Bran can’t help but sigh in relief, because that’s admittedly less serious than it could have been.

 

“You’re not a dumbass… It happens fairly often from what I know…”

 

“You can fix it then, right?” His coworker turns to him hopefully as they almost arrive to the staircase door. 

 

Mario’s apartment is neat and very functional. No superfluous decorations, but the furniture is picked in good taste, making it seem more spacious than its moderate size would allow. He’s closer to an ordinary cop than an investigator, engaging more with the dirty work at RIS instead of highbrow intellectual tasks, so he’s not particularly well-paid. His way of living appears humble and simple, not half as messy as Bran’s own.  

 

“It’s not a spectacular place,” Mario comments as he puts down his bag and finally takes off the uniform jacket, soaked underneath, “but I hope it’s not that terrible either.”

 

Bran realizes he probably noticed he was staring, which makes his stomach curl up in a knot of shame. He tries to forget as soon as possible to maintain a level of acceptability in his interactions with the other. Soon, Mario gets some screwdrivers and shows him where the computer is situated — in the bedroom atop a desk — and as he steps next to it, he figures something is  _ very _ wrong.

 

“Have you been… cooking?” He dares to ask, moving across the system unit with careful fingertips, looking for the screws.

 

“Not really, not recently anyway” Mario holds his chin in contemplation.

 

It doesn’t surprise Bran, only shatters his last bits of hope for the PC. The smell around the thing is unlike anything he’s ever felt, dangerously telling about materials that shouldn’t be burned — having burned. It’s also still much hotter than normal, almost too hot to touch.

 

“I’ll get something cold while you’re busy with this, is beer okay?”

 

“Yeah…” Bran mutters, not paying much attention because disassembling that mistreated piece of machinery suddenly seems like a priority, like saving a puppy on the verge of death. 

 

He manages to get the lid off pretty quickly, while Mario is still away, and when he does, the sweat from panic adds to what’s already seeping through his t-shirt. The panel is still in his hands as he looks on in horror; there isn’t much to do. The hard drive isn’t just scalded and emanating toxic smoke, but already halfway melted. Bran is afraid it’ll explode or catch a fire if he so much as pokes it. He wishes a part of him wasn’t suggesting this is somehow his fault, but hell, Mario asks him for help for the first time in his life and he turns out useless…

 

“So how’s it going?”

 

Suddenly, Bran’s lungs forget how to work. The lid slips from his fingers and hits the edge of the desk with a loud noise that makes his ears ring.

 

Mario should know better than to appear out of nowhere, shirtless, holding a can of beer in each hand. It looks like a stereotypical TV commercial and it makes the other man question whether he’s hallucinating or life just enjoys hitting him in the face this much.  _ Logically _ , there’s nothing to stare at, because he’s known Mario for years and he’s always had the same physique — he’s always looked like a permanently photogenic ambulant Greek statue or anatomical study, one of those people with their proportions so  _ right _ it doesn’t even look real. But it draws more attention to him when he’s  _ so close _ as he leaps forward in a belated attempt to catch the lid as it drops, displaying every well-sculpted bump and furrow of his abs. Bran starts feeling guilty for the dishonesty of calling it just ‘admiration’ when his eyes are drawn to Mario’s chest like magnets.

 

“You okay?” 

 

Like every time he shows any amount of concern for him, the phrase makes Bran’s head a little light. It’s not fair that he’s so nice besides being handsome. It’s just not fair. It doesn’t even feel like envy, he  _ wishes _ it did. 

 

“I just had to space out for a bit, it’s just—” Bran wobbles back a bit towards the system unit, desperately trying to hide his discoveries from Mario, “you’re really hot.”

 

There’s a moment of silence and he swallows a lump of saliva before processing his mistake and going full damage control, but Mario is quicker at reacting than him.

 

“Oh wow, thanks” he laughs;  _ at least _ he didn’t take it seriously. At the  _ very least _ .

 

“The weather…!” Bran practically yells, nerves and verbal abilities in the same state as the computer beside him. “I meant the temperature. Sorry, I can’t talk…”

 

“So it wasn’t a compliment?” Mario continues the joke, stepping back, mockingly downcast. 

 

“It’s not like it isn’t true, I just didn’t mean to—” The other looks to the side, picking at the sweaty skin of his arm as the PC’s cooling system buzzes alarmingly in the background. “Fuck, the heat is really messing with my head.”

 

While Bran tries to salvage the last remainders of his pride and not feel absolutely mortified, he’s offered a seat on the office chair next to the desk. Mario slumps onto the bed and opens his beer. Maybe he’ll be charitable enough to forget this conversation, because Bran doesn’t even dare to look his way, especially since he’d wander off again towards his exposed torso — it’s stronger than him.

 

“I really gotta thank you for looking into this,” he comments with a relieving change in topics, “as I told you, I’m terrible with tech. This is why I haven’t told Kaela, I’m sure I wouldn’t hear the end of it if it were her, especially since all the data is inaccessible.”

 

“What I know isn’t very hard to understand… You probably would…” Bran is still trying to recover, pressing the can against his forehead to exploit the coolness, then taking a sip or two. 

 

“You could explain to me what went wrong, when you figure out.”

 

“Yeah, I suppose I… Yeah.”

 

He tries to consume the beverage as slowly as possible, because now he’s too deep into the lie to give it up; he can’t just tell Mario his data as dead as Bran’s sense of self-worth. Deep down he knows he’ll have to say it in one way or another, but part of him wants to stay here and enjoy being with his coworker, just the two of them, in his apartment. It almost sounds ambiguous if one describes it vaguely enough. Bran isn’t sure why he even  _ wants it to _ , but if this is going to be the last time he can look Mario in the eyes, he might as well make the most of it. The problem is that the beer inevitably ends five minutes later, and after the last drops fall onto his tongue with a tilt, he’s forced to get up, limbs heavy, to turn his attention to the computer again.

 

“So,” Mario says, making the other’s pulse double as he stands up as well, “time for me to learn something from the best.”

 

“It’s really not that interesting…” 

 

“Man, I’m starting to think I  _ am _ too dumb to get it and you’re just being nice—” 

 

He’s cut off when he’s almost, _almost_ close enough to see the mess inside the PC, stopped by Bran standing between the two in a strange act of protectiveness. _Between_ — with the hard drive behind him and Mario’s pectorals mere millimeters from his face. Anything embarrassing that has happened before during this ordeal is _nothing_ compared to this.

 

A few moments of silence. Bran is absolutely petrified. He can’t move backwards, or the mess would be discovered; he can’t move forwards either, because that would mean coming into physical contact with Mario, not something he can sustain. The latter gives him a questioning look, trying to puzzle through his behaviour which, well, must look pretty bizarre right now. All Bran experiences next is the little distance between them rapidly decreasing even more and his brain going to mush along with it. 

 

There’s too much to digest when Mario kisses him, it’s surreal like the mirages they saw on the way here. It’s the last thing he can foresee happening, a demonstration of how how life maybe isn’t how he expects it to be. It’s soft but also a bit meticulous and forceful, it feels like he’s containing himself not to scare off Bran, who relaxes more as a hand roams his much thinner back. He doesn’t know where the courage to kiss back comes from, if it can even be called that with how politely he leans into Mario’s lips. Bran notices that the other’s goatee, always a bit odd and scratchy in his fantasies, doesn’t bother him at all but rather serves as a unique reassurance that it really is  _ him _ . He blushes and looks away unwillingly when they split.

 

“Was this not what…?” Mario mumbles — something he rarely ever does. “If it wasn’t, I apologize.”

 

“No, it’s fine—” Bran has to interrupt himself, looking for a way to circumnavigate bluntness. “You can… you know,...”

 

Maybe it’s the agitation, or maybe it’s how awkwardly Mario is tugging him towards the bed, just as insecure about this deep down as him, that gives him a bit of courage. Everything is less overwhelming suddenly, much more soothing, as his focus draws away from him making a fool out of himself, the lies, the PC, and instead becomes preoccupied with how good-looking and appreciable the other is. Bran is still not big on the whole confidence-thing but he assumes he at least has a warranty to run his fingers along Mario’s abs now, earning half a chuckle that turns him shy and beet-red once again. There’s a very concrete relief in undressing since they might be approaching 40 degrees at this hour of the day, and his t-shirt comes off less hesitantly than he would have imagined. 

 

Bran’s shame dissipates to the last bit in the course of twenty minutes; it must, when Mario finally thrusts into him after a series of thorough preparations. By mysteriously knowing how to do all of this — knowing where to touch and how — he fulfills a sort of idyllic expectation in a way befitting him but impressive at the same time. 

 

“Are you okay?”

 

The other nods, starting to settle into the slight discomfort. They’re both damp from sweat, except it doesn’t feel disgusting now somehow, despite Bran’s thighs sticking to Mario’s sides a little where his legs hook around. The moan just sort of escapes him at the next roll of hips, after which the sex devolves into a hazy jumble of events removed from the mundane reality before it. Bran’s running thoughts are extinguished, he only thinks about the strong arms around him, his own instinctual grasping at the pillow with one hand, and how even fucking him into the mattress looks like a considerate act if done by Mario. It’s too good, too pleasurable from every possible aspect. He can barely conceive it as real. 

 

There’s something immensely endearing about how his lips search for the other’s in-between thrusts, instead pecking every spot they travel across, his cheeks and jaw and chin and neck. Bran’s mouth curls up at the corners as he pants and whines, kissing him on the first try and relishing in not being the clumsier one for once. They move in sync, pressed against each other in an embrace somewhat threatened by Bran’s palms sliding off Mario’s shoulders from the sweat; the sheets are doused underneath them by the time they come. 

 

If there was an excuse for them being there together, it’s already thrown aside when they both slump back onto the mattress, uncaring or maybe even content with being completely naked. Or at least Bran thinks so, among the lazy (and surprisingly still half-timid) stares they cast each other’s way, until Mario sighs and finally says something.

 

“Well, I guess I don’t mind this kind of delay in tech support for my data recovery.”

 

It could be the disinhibition, but the sentence slips out from Bran’s mouth.

 

“...For starters, that’s impossible.”

 

He tries to ignore any degree of disappointment in Mario’s raising brows. 

 

“Your hard drive is, uh, melted.” He elaborates. “That’s the first go-to way to permanently destroy everything on it.”

 

The pause after the phrase feels dramatic, as if his life is over right in that moment — until Mario lets out a throaty laughter. Bran can’t process the reaction first, maybe it’s the burning sunlight hitting him through the window slowing down his thinking.

 

“I’m sorry for being a fuckup” he says almost under his breath.

 

“Come on, are you serious?” Mario says with with an alleviating lightheartedness as he gets up from the bed to put his boxers back on. “This goes to show how big a fuckup  _ I _ am, if anything. Jesus,” he laughs again, “how did I even do this?”

 

“The temperature if you ask me…” Bran trails off. “I didn’t want to tell you.”

 

“So I’d avoid this blow to my self-esteem?” Before he can reply, Mario is already at his side of the bed and presses a kiss against his temple. “You’re a parkour-level worrier.”

 

“But your files…”

 

“It’s cool, man. I was prepared for a massive scolding anyway” he adds as he walks off towards the bathroom, probably to get some towels. 

 

Bran resorts to glaring at the muscles of his back with a deep sigh aimed at himself. Maybe there’s some truth to it when people tell him he makes his own life harder. The techie in him feels somewhat sorry for the fuming PC, but that’s really the only detail that distinguishes the afternoon from a best case scenario.

 

Unfortunately, problems need to be dealt with — so the next day the two of them approach Kaela’s room in an apocalyptic mood. Even Mario looks a bit intimidated as they both breathe out and look at each other with a nod. As usual, she doesn’t turn away from her work to address them when Bran calls out to her.

 

“Is it urgent? I don’t have time.”

 

Mario is the one giving a brief and abashed description of the problem, it’s clear from his face he’s prepared to apologize profusely.

 

“What, the HDD with your work files? So what?” It takes a few moments of no response from behind her back for Kaela to notice the general confusion as she scrolls down with a tap of foot on one pedal, typing in a page of code within seconds. Bran and Mario hear a deep, annoyed sigh.

 

“I can’t believe men sometimes.” She says to herself, then raising her voice a bit to talk to the other two. “Do you guys have any idea how often computers break here? I have all the data stored and constantly updated on my servers. Now shoo!” 

 

As they leave, Mario chuckles to himself ironically, trying to mask the very evident solace on his face, the expression of someone who just avoided the biggest risk of their life — somewhat comical from an investigator in mortal danger on the daily. At least the appalling heat is still there to blame the sweat on instead of nervousness. He looks at Bran who is, in the meanwhile, suddenly hit with the giddiness of yesterday’s events.

 

“I have no right to call you a worrier, do I?”


End file.
